Brevity is the soul of lingerie.

I've been away from the blog for a while, due to a much-needed rest period after my surgery. Sort of. Truth be told, I kept trying to write a post, but I got tired and then got sent to the couch to sulk. Spiff's job of keeping me from doing things that make me exhausted is a thankless task. I'm not an easy patient. I blame my father, who once fell off the back of his boat while repairing it in his yard, and sort of neglected to tell his wife about it until his neck hurt so badly that he needed to see a doctor. For his broken collarbone. Yep, I am my father's daughter. Please do not ask how the kitchen furniture got rearranged. I don't want to talk about it.

The title of today's post comes from Dorothy Parker, who would have thoroughly approved of my response to getting staples taken out of my head. My husband and I decided to book two nights at the B&B we had to cancel before my surgery—a much-needed retreat to somewhere quiet, where meals are not my responsibility, the livingroom has a copy of the OED on the table instead of little plastic toys, takeout receipts, and scraps of wool, and laundry is a distant memory. Extremely distant, actually. So distant that...well...

It was an innocent mistake. We came with picnic basket in hand, and our room was not ready yet, so the nice lady who owned the place told us we could go down to the pool or to the riverfront to hang out until she was ready for us. So we moseyed on down to the river, had ourselves a lovely lunch, drank a glass of wine, breathed air that did not smell of car exhaust, marveled at how wonderful it is to sit by a river on a sunny day with nowhere to go, and thought, hey, what the hell, there's no one within sight...underwear is as good as a bathing suit in a pinch, right? And it was a Better Underwear day: getaway with the husband, so, you know, my bra and panties matched. Excellent. Bathing suit city. Sort of. For a twenty-year-old.

Now, I am a sensible woman where bathing suits are concerned. I realise that having had a kid and being nearly forty years old, I do not have a "thong butt," no matter how skinny or buff I try to get. (Okay, so I don't try very hard. Shut up.) It just ain't gonna happen. Cellulite, no matter what the magazines say, is SO not reversable. So under normal circumstances, like, say, at a public beach, you would have to kill me first before you would get me to wear a thong bikini in front of all those concave-bellied, balloon-butted little youngsters who can wear next to nothing and get away with it. I know I'm past the thong bikini stage, and I'm okay with that.

But thong underwear: different story. Say what you will about the string up the butt, it's damned comfortable to wear next to nothing for underwear. And many women of a certain age will, no doubt, agree with me about the gravity-defying delights of a push-up bra....

People, I flashed my T&A (that's tits and ass, Mum) to a cop. Québec's finest, complete with bullet-proof POLICE vest and gun at his side, came out of freaking nowhere, and wanted to have a conversation with us about whether or not we were guests at the B&B, what were we doing there on the riverfront, and did we know that the abandoned cottage next to us was off-limits. In French. I am proud to say that I held my own, understood his accent (no easy accomplishment there), did not run, did not say anything stupid, and spoke the language properly. In my thong and push-up bra. In front of a cop. Who never once mentioned my state of undress, even when my husband said, "Could we please put our clothes on before we have a conversation with you?"

Stephanie, take note: better underwear does not guarantee a better result. Dude, keep that hotel key with you at all times. Just thought I'd mention it.

How did I feel standing nearly nekkid in front of a cop, trying to come up with enough coherent French to explain my vacation plans when my brain was too fuzzy to even remember the name of the B&B owner? (Yep, he asked.) The OED says it best.

Rabbitch, honey, you'd say it better,
and without the magnifying glass.
Because god knows we don't need one of those to see my ass.

In health news, I'm gradually getting better. I have a constant headache and feel a bit like my skull is misshapen, but compared to a migraine, it's a walk in the park. Freaky at times, but not horrible. I have also had the Angiogram From Hell, which on the one hand has shown that my clip is in perfect position and the aneurysm is indeed dissected and gone. On the other hand, I feel like a human water balloon who has been kicked in both the head and the groin. (Femoral artery entry to get a catheter to the brain. You figure it out.) These kinds of tests are never fun, but in addition to the usual averse reaction to puncture wounds (really?), I'm allergic to contrast dye. So I had to have a Very Serious Conversation with the Complete Prick who was supervising the procedure in order to make sure that I could breathe through it. He actually had the balls to ask me how badly I could not breathe. Luckily, medical sense won out over pride, and I got several medications to make sure that I did not turn blue on the table.

In knitting news (why yes, I still knit), I have, ta da, a Finished Object to announce:

The Village People on a healthfood kick.
"Kap" by Berroco is blocking over a plate
and a yogourt container. Let it not be said
that we don't reuse and recycle.

This pattern has a mistake in it. If you plan to have your cap contain the nicely placed little ridgies before you decrease for the cap's crown, you need to reverse the second row instructions so that the purls follow the purls and the knits follow the knits. And here's the result:

Way better than a toque.
My scar is covered by my hair now,
but I still wanted a cool hat. I also wanted
to finish something I'd started, for once.

I used two strands of yarn for this hat: one strand of Welcomme l'Akala (cotton) and one strand of Velvet (a hand-dyed viscose yarn from The Wool Peddler), both hand-delivered to me by my future LYS owner, my buddy Ginette. (More news on that as it comes...September 15 promises to be a fabulous day for yarn-lovers and sewing buffs alike in Montréal). The Velvet is simply luscious. I'd use it again in a Montréal minute, which is a hell of a lot longer than a New York minute, but I'm a bit slow these days. Reality checks on my current position in local space take time, you know?

I'm also trying, valiantly, to use my Alchemy Bamboo to make a Bias Corset (Annie Modesitt, IK Summer 2006). But it appears that if I use the initial stitch count for casting on that she gives for the extra small, the count is off for the setup row after the ribbing. My solution is to shift the setup row over two stitches to begin the setup round with the required two knits rather than the two purls I would otherwise have to start on. Also, there is the minor problem that I'm using a yarn which does not give me gauge. I'm pulling a Claudia: I like this yarn and dammit, I'm going to knit with it, so gauge gets thrown to the wind and I'm making the smallest size to compensate. What fun. I've ripped this sucker more times than I care to admit, and now I'm down to a size 2.5mm circ. I think I'll be happy with it now. But as I was trying to figure out sizing for the needle I would need, I noticed something rather freaky.

Did you know that the 2.5mm needle does not exist? Despite the fact that I have one in my frustrated little hobbit hands? I wanted to know what US size 2.5mms would translate to, so I looked it up. I can't find a 2.5mm on any needle conversion chart to save my soul. What the hell? The charts all show, for example, needle sizes in metric which do not have a US corresponding size, with a dash in the US column, to represent the fact that there is no US conversion. Same if there is no UK conversion. But 2.5mm? Not there. Now, I'm fine with the fact that there's no conversion, but don't just cross the damned needle off your list of possibilities, dude. There is absolutely no notation on these charts to say, hey, intrepid ex-pat knitter, there IS no conversion, so get over it and learn the metric system like the rest of us civilized people. Nada. Disparu. Tabular accuracy be damned.

Pretty yarn before the discovery
that the 3.5mm was too big. About to be ripped.
For the fifth time. I'm trying to reduce
my flesh exposure factor, see....

So, I'm knitting with a hypothetical needle, folks. It's more elusive than full-coverage underwear on a Québec riverfront. I wonder if the resulting tank top is even going to exist. Maybe I should rename this thing "The Empress's New Tanktop."

The OED (Oxford English Dictionary, Mum), by the way, is something I've coveted for years, having had access to it at most of my academic jobs. Spiff was amazed that editors can cope with the magnifying glass that comes with it, but he was willing to give it a shot, and even thought he might get me an edition (until he saw the price. Small fortune. Sorry, darling.). First word he looked up?

Dude. In use since 1877.
He thought it came from California surfer-speak.
No way, dude. Leave your surfboard at home.
But next time, bring your bathing suit. Peace out.

Note from Techno-Spiff: If you were one of the first nine commenters on this post, our server got hungry and ate your comment, along with the post. Please feel free to comment again—we love to hear from you. Sorry for the inconvenience!

August 11, 2006 8:33 AM  | Permalink  | Comments (65)  | Print